Never Cross This Surgeon

Summary

I was at the TSA checkpoint, the smell of recycled air and stale coffee heavy in my lungs, when the officer asked the standard question: "Any prohibited items in your luggage?"

I was about to shake my head, my mind already halfway to the O.R. in Nashville, but my assistant, Tiffany, beat me to it. She raised her hand with a look of wide-eyed, terrifying innocence.

"Do surgical knives count? Because she has dozens of them in that suitcase!"

The world stopped. The rhythmic shuffling of the line went dead silent.